


Mycroft, at Present

by Eva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:00:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva/pseuds/Eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft spends little time in the present.  (Post TGG)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mycroft, at Present

Mycroft had been a nail biter. His mother had corrected the habit with positive reinforcement. Sweets. And a new bad habit was formed.

If he hadn’t been so sedentary. But he was. Sweat, and worse than sweat, the smell of sweat, disgusted Mycroft. There were many, many odours that disgusted Mycroft. Baby Sherlock had been unbearable. Mycroft had loved him, couldn’t have loved him more; couldn’t touch him for anything less than to save his life. Diapers and spit-up. Mycroft had been a baby once. He couldn’t be more grateful to have no memory of it.

Mycroft’s memories of their childhood together are of screaming and wailing in the distance, and soft, baby-powdered nights. His beautiful baby brother--asleep. He sat beside the crib for hours, fascinated by every strand of dark, curling hair. Every tiny shift, every breath.

Mycroft hadn’t spoken until he was three, until he could speak complete sentences. Sherlock screamed from day one, communicating all of his irritation with all of the world, a world too stupid and slow to catch up to him.

The elevator opens and Mycroft wakes from his reverie. A childhood from the time it takes to get from the first floor to the third. He finds that he has made his decision regarding the conflict in Eastern Europe whilst otherwise (sentimentally) engaged.

Clearly, his workload is insufficient.

 

He has all the same nervous energy that characterises his little brother, all the same bright firing of the mind that, when not engaged, spirals in on itself until it seems the universe must collapse into the singularity there formed--Mycroft smiles. His umbrella swings. He has four people assassinated, takes it back to three; extends it to seven. The world swings through countless futures. The universe escapes the gravity of Mycroft contemplating Mycroft for a moment.

He wonders idly if he should try again to take up a hobby. Code-breaking had been fun, for a week or two, and the United States had been so touchingly grateful.

The dead weight of his boredom looms so great that Mycroft feels insignificant next to it. He had never approved of his little brother’s drug use; that doesn’t mean he couldn’t understand it. But look at what had happened when he’d interfered in that...! Mycroft winces at the recollection, at his promise, his covenant, his solemn oath to never take up Sherlock as a project again. If the universe cannot bear Mycroft’s gravity, then neither can it bear Sherlock’s raging intensity.

He decides, nevertheless, to follow in the grand tradition of man and choose an heir. It is an accepted fact that there is no one who can do his job; no one who can take his place. Mycroft feels ready for a challenge.

A man in his station is, after all, allowed a PA.

And two assassinations will prove satisfactory.

 

Sherlock does little other than focus. Mycroft allows his mind to fracture, sitting still, swinging his umbrella rather than reaching for a bowl of peppermints that is no longer there. A thousand futures spring from this very moment; he prunes them, carefully, until caution is as much a burden as an anchor and he allows for stranger and more improbable variables, hundreds in a moment. He thinks wistfully of Iceland and two dozen budgeting plans to make up their debt. He reins in the economic problems in Greece and sets them loose again; if he is to hold the United Kingdom stable, then the tremors must be allowed elsewhere. He adds one more window to his office, to allow more natural light and air flow in the summer.

He makes a note of that for Anthea.

She is doing well. What her mind can’t do, technology makes up for, and she types very quickly with her thumbs. She could possibly take over twenty percent of his duties at this very moment, and not suffer unduly from stress for at least two weeks. There is nothing Mycroft appreciates more than competence, and hers is coming along nicely.

He smiles. As is Doctor Watson’s. He did so enjoy hearing Anthea’s impression of the man. She hasn’t yet realised that they are both his projects, though Doctor Watson is on a longer leash.

Two wars, then, averted in the span of ten minutes. Or will be, once Mycroft makes a call. But he hesitates, wondering if he ought to let go of that leash. Does Sherlock consider the Doctor his friend? If he does, does that render John Watson off-limits?

There is no puzzle in the world quite like Sherlock Holmes. He allows himself an affectionate smile as the greater part of his mind ponders it.

He dials.

 

The pillars of the earth are trembling, and no one knows.

Mycroft cannot see any future at all.

(No, that’s not quite true. Some distant part of his mind has killed Jim Moriarity in millions of ways, unique ways, with millions more variations on each one of those special, beautiful, unique, endlessly painful and perfectly terrible fates fighting it out in his heart for pride of place, oh, Jim Moriarity, you will suffer and suffer and suffer.)

His hands are shaking.

If Sherlock dies

 

Tangle of dark hair. Lax lips, soft puff of breath.

Terror, the future unknown, swallows the universe.


End file.
